It was not the Marquis de Sade who obsessed me.
It was a sentence.
An idea.
The suspicion that one human will could be imposed upon another with the precision of architecture.
When I read Sade, it was never the excess that interested me.
It was the construction.
The systems.
The way he built mental fortresses in which everything seemed designed to lead toward an inevitable outcome.
For years I believed it was only literature.
A philosophical exaggeration.
An intellectual experiment pushed too far.
And yet now, weeks before seeing the Owner again, I find my mind operating in a disturbingly similar way.
Not because I want to obey.
I still do not like the idea of being submissive.
Even now it often feels foreign to me.
There are mornings when it seems absurd.
Moments when I convince myself that all of this is over.
Then something happens.
A memory.
A posture.
The recollection of being corrected.
The sensation of being slowly adjusted toward a position I did not fully understand.
And the rest of the day begins to lose definition.
It does not disappear.
It remains.
Work.
Conversations.
Obligations.
People.
Yet something about them becomes distant.
As though they were drawn in lines too soft to hold their shape.
While another image becomes unbearably clear.
Me.
Motionless.
Waiting.
While the Owner continues his process.
That is what I cannot explain.
Because I am not obsessed with him.
I am obsessed with the ending of something that began when his hands started reorganizing a part of me I did not even know existed.
Perhaps Sade would have argued that every architecture requires a law.
But what unsettles me is something else.
The possibility that my mind has decided to transform that process into a law of its own.
As though there were an equation left unsolved.
As though every day were merely an interval between a question and its answer.
And the answer always waits in the same place.
At the end of the process.
At the end of the adjustment.
At the end of remaining.
I do not understand why.
And that is precisely why I cannot stop thinking about it.
The harder I try to leave it behind, the more it returns.
The more I reason, the shorter the reasoning lasts.
The conclusion arrives faster each time.
Not as a decision.
The image remains.
The structure remains.
The question remains.
And while everything else changes shape around me, I continue finding myself in exactly the same place.
Waiting to discover what exists on the other side of the final correction.
The neck…
